


Witching Hour

by fuckingsherlock



Category: Black Butler, Kuroshitsuji, Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 17:40:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15801423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckingsherlock/pseuds/fuckingsherlock
Summary: When Ciel can't face the morning grey shadows alone, Sebastian is there.





	Witching Hour

It’s late. The witching hours are here.

He shouldn’t be awake.

It’s been this way for a while now; late summer nights out on the Queen’s escapades. Escaping death by hairs on his head of singed storm blue.

Halos form against the pillows of silk.

Sleep is a game, and while the young Earl normally enjoys the resemblance of his surreal reality to entertaining pastime, it is not a game he is willing to play. It falls in and out of his grasp.

Like a veil, it shrouds his consciousness in its possessive grey dawn shadows. Push as he might, the thin fabric will never withdraw from his vision, the same way his inky silk sheets never seem to smoothe.

Like all evils, Sebastian is there. Contrary to popular belief, witching hours are not limited to witches, not limited to the booming strike of 3 o’clock upon the manor’s grandfather clock.

Ciel knows Sebastian is there. Sebastian knows that Ciel knows he’s there.

He shouldn’t be awake. It’s been his way for a while now, though.

A sound breaks their mutual silence, their agreed respect to never mention the occurrence of the night. For the umpteenth time, Ciel cannot help but wonder why the demon persists to loyally abide by -- not just their contract agreements-- but the trivial, sentimental, human formalities.

The witching hours are here. He ought to be doing evil, punishing Ciel; he ought to be snickering in the face of his false fearlessness. But he doesn’t.

And that’s because they’ve worked through these knots before, they’ve smoothed out the kinks and hitches in Sebastian’s method of reassurance that Ciel desperately needs. So much so, that the poisonous reassurance of a demon’s words is preferable to the agonizing, gaping silence that Ciel Phantomhive must face until his revenge is captured tightly in death’s grip.

They’ve worked through those knots before on nights just like these, where a sound breaks their mutual silence; their agreed respect.

So neither of the two point out: how pitiful Ciel Phantomhive looks with snot, sweat, and tears streaming down his face, how disgustingly close the sound is to a sob.

They are silent in the moment of Sebastian’s movement. The silk bedding dips underneath the weight of his reassurance, the sheets wrinkle further along with it. Ciel is sure there is something significant about the sheets’ wrinkling, that there’s some metaphor here to read, but the tears and veils are blinding him now. His throat is hot and tight and he doesn’t know if Sebastian is going to finally, _finally_ , give up the contract right then and there in favour of consuming his filthy, weathered soul, when Sebastian leans in close enough to gently -- God, so gently -- pry away Ciel’s trembling hands from his eyes; his own makeshift veil to justify the blindness to his fate.

Sebastian doesn’t wear his gloves in times like this. Initially, because he didn’t want to soil what few pairs of stark white gloves he had left, with his Master’s sniffling. Now, he is ungloved not because of such a trivial, solvable issue, but because the little warmth that his hands still retain, serves to imitate the touch of another human. Just as all he does, it serves a purpose.

The hot heat of his palms on Ciel’s jaw, the lingering warmth of his black-stained fingers on Ciel’s cheeks: they serve to distract the boy from the actuality of Sebastian Michaelis.

“Say it, say it,” Ciel commands with the authority of a dying man. Sebastian’s hands serve their purpose of catching his Master’s uncomfortable tear tracks. His thumbs swipe softly against the hot ivory of Ciel’s plush, youthful cheeks.

“You are loved,” Sebastian murmurs quietly to the gaping silence between them that is begging and begging to be filled with words of tender affection.

“Say it,” the boy will repeat until the morning grey shadows morph into its softer marigold twin. Like those are the only words he has ever managed to breathe through his asthma-wounded lungs.

“You are loved, you are loved,” Sebastian will reply.

**Author's Note:**

> 8 years of obsessing over BB, and I was finally, finally, struck by inspiration to write a proper fanfic. Despite RPing Sebastian Michaelis all over the place, from Tumblr to Amino (Currently), this is my first official writing contribution to the fandom. Please let me know if you enjoyed it! (Huff emoji)


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